


Child's Play

by tjmystic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), BAMF Dean Winchester, Childhood Trauma, Desperation, Eventual Smut, Gun Violence, Heavy Angst, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2019-11-04 05:58:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17892821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjmystic/pseuds/tjmystic
Summary: Dean Winchester never planned on getting Reaped.  He never planned on having to learn to be a cold-blooded killer.  But here he is, 30 years old, and Reaped for the second time.  The first time, it was all to save Sam.  This time, he has to save them all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deathtosanepeople](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathtosanepeople/gifts), [Ssirius_Blackk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ssirius_Blackk/gifts).



> Alright, so a couple disclaimers before we get started. First, I am absolutely horrible at updating. Ask anyone who knows me, it is true. That said, I am committed to this project - I've been working on it for just over a year now - so you better believe I'm finishing this one. Second, this is a very, very, very slow burn. The smut you're looking for doesn't come into play until close to chapter 12. I worded that sentence very carefully, by the way. Mind the content warnings. 
> 
> That should do it. This is my first every Supernatural fic of any length, so I'm throwing all of my chips on the table for this one. Let's hope that it doesn't suck :)

Dean rubs his hands over his knees, fingers digging into the holes of his jeans.  The Capitol’s theme music blares on the TV – the counter in the top corner lets them know they just have one more minute till the real fun starts. 

 

Just the thought sends a shiver down his spine, and he clutches harder at his pants to keep from showing it. 

 

Bobby coughs, muttering something under his breath about getting something stronger to drink.  He dialed in just a few seconds after the TV came on, a hologram of the crotchety old bastard popping up across from the couch.  Jody’s sitting beside him, hands shaking around a cup of coffee.  Sam called Cas immediately after.  His best friend is silent on the other end of his brother’s communicator watch.  Not that anyone but Dean seems to notice.  Sam’s eyes have been glued on his big brother since the Capitol emblem popped up on the screen. 

 

Dean refuses to look at him.  At any of them.  This year is going to be different.  He can feel it.  They can all feel it. 

 

Three… two… one…

 

The ancient faux-Pagan symbol fades from the screen, replaced by a little troll of a man who seriously needs a shave and a haircut.  Metadroid, or Metatron, or something, Dean thinks.  A dumbass name to go with the dumbass new-ish Master of Ceremonies. 

 

“Greetings, citizens!” he calls, waving his hands to calm a crowd that isn’t cheering for him.  “Thank you, thank you.  As you know, our 50th Anniversary is quickly approaching.  Fifty years of peace, and prosperity, and overwhelming success!”

 

The crowd cheers again, and the guy grins at them gratefully.  Dean rolls his eyes and pours himself a shot of whiskey.  It wouldn’t surprise him if the guy went all Sally Fields on everyone – “You love me, you really love me!” 

 

A moment passes – a long one – before Metatron waves his hands again to settle the crowd.  He clears his throat and lets himself look a little more serious.  Well, as serious as he can look with that goofy looking twitch in his eyes like a kid about to get a cookie.  “As you all know, we here in the Capitol like to spice things up every now and then.  We like to call these momentous occasions the Quarter Quell.”

 

A tiny screen pops up over Metatron’s shoulder and grows until it takes up half the TV.  Dean’s spine stiffens as image after image parades across the number “25” blazing in the background.  A little girl bashes in a boy’s skull.  Teenage twins laugh as they fire arrows into a different girl’s chest.  A tall eighteen-year-old with black hair and a bloody flannel over-shirt lifts his blade and drives it through the final tribute’s neck.  He turns and looks up at the sky, glaring at it with bared teeth.  He’s thinner than Dean’s ever seen him, and his hair is more black than grey, but Dean would know that face, that expression, anywhere.  By the way that Sam inhales sharply to his right, he does, too.  John Winchester isn’t a man easily forgotten.

 

Dean foregoes the shot glass this time and takes a swig straight from the bottle.

 

“Exactly twenty-five Games ago, we added an extra element,” Metatron continues, his grubby little face overpowering the screen yet again.  “Well, _double_ the element, anyway.  On that glorious year, we reaped not _two_ children from each District, but _four_!  For over two decades, we here at the Capitol have thought, ‘How could we ever top _this_?  How could we bring you even _more_ excitement?’  Well, friends, I think we’ve finally done it.”

 

The crowd oohs and ahhs in anticipation.  Somebody actually fucking gasps.  Metatron eats it all right up.

 

“For our second ever Quarter Quell, our 50th Hunger Games, we have decided… well, let me not spoil the fun myself.  I’ll have plenty of time to _reap_ the rewards once the Games begin.”  He winks right at the camera.  Dean takes another drink.  “Alright, alright.  Without further ado, I give you… our President!”

 

The roar of the crowd is deafening.  So is the silence in Dean’s living room. 

 

The President takes the stage, tall and sturdy behind his podium.  The curtains behind him light up to give him a kind of halo effect, like some gleaming, angelic god, like the sun shines out of his ass.  Dean laughs dryly at the image – no doubt a special instruction from the President himself.  But Dean knows better.  Any closer, and the camera would catch how his skin peels behind his makeup, flaking away like the meth addicts of old.  It might even catch his reddened, disease-ridden eyes.  But the camera stays just far enough away that only those who’ve seen him in up-close and personal would know to look for it – that just isn’t something the crowd is supposed to notice. 

 

Lucifer taps on the mic, a gleeful smile lighting up his face. 

 

“Evening, everyone,” he greets, clapping his hands together.  “Thanks for putting up with the spiel.  What can I say, I can’t help myself.  I just love the… anticipation.”  He grins a little wider.  “This year, the Reaping will _not_ proceed as usual.”

 

The crowd begins to murmur.  The President smirks, one side of his mouth twitching up toward his cheek.  Sam leans all the way forward in his seat.  Dean does nothing. 

 

“No worries, the Reaping _will_ still happen.  We’re just making a few changes to the setup.”  He takes another long pause.  “This year, instead of pulling from a brand new crop of _civilians_ … the Tributes will all be Victors from previous years.”

 

The crowd on the TV goes nuts.  Bobby curses loudly.  Jody’s coffee cup smashes on the floor.  Lucifer snaps his fingers, quieting the crowd before him so he can keep talking, but Dean doesn’t hear a word he says.

 

He _can_ hear Sam shouting.  He can hear Cas repeating his name.  But he doesn’t stick around.  He can’t.

 

Silent, he grabs the whiskey bottle and heads for the door. 

 

He skids down the steps, his boots doing nothing against the ice.  The sky is fucking black – no stars, no moon, nothing.  Snow covers everything.  Dean doesn’t see any of it.  He sees a red sky and fields of wheat.  He sees twelve goddamn years ago.  And it’s like nothing has changed. 

 

* * * 

** May 1 – Year of the 38th Games **

The sun was just setting when the ducks flew off over the barn.  Four of them flapped together, grey wings stretched wide, but the one in the back straggled.  It dipped lower on the horizon, belly just a few yards from the yellowed grass, head bent and –

 

_BANG!_

The duck fell with a wet _flump_ , landing heavily in the wheat below.  Dean smirked and lowered his gun. 

 

The pearl handle glinted in his fist before he stuffed it into the back of his pants.  Strictly speaking, he shouldn’t have had this.  The guards – “peacekeepers”, they called themselves, but Dean thought that was a stupid fucking name, and he refused to even think it on principle – would kill him if they ever caught him with it.  Course, strictly speaking, he shouldn’t be out past the fence, either.  They’d be just as likely to kill him for that, too. 

 

Careful of the sludgy dirt underfoot, he dug his way through the wheat.  The duck was just a few yards off.  He couldn’t help but smile at it – it looked bigger here than it had in the sky.  He and Sam would eat well tonight. 

 

Whistling low, he swung the duck into his empty sack and headed for the barn.  To anyone else, it might’ve been invisible, caved-in and half buried in a field of barley overgrown with poison oak.  But Dad had used it on and off for fourteen years, which meant that, by extension, so had Dean.  It, the pearl gun, and the leather jacket on Dean’s shoulders were the only things left of John Winchester. 

 

With a low grunt, he kicked in the creaky door and shouldered his way inside.  He ditched the gun first thing, sliding it out of his pants and into its holster next to a rotted hay bale.  It jingled when he took a handful off the top – there were still a good hundred cases of bullets stuffed inside it.  In that regard, at least, Dad hadn’t left Dean wanting.

 

He wrinkled his nose as he stuffed the sack full.  It would make the duck a bitch to clean later, and he knew it, but better a mouthful of moldy old hay than a public whipping for sneaking out of bounds. 

 

The bird was sticky under his fingers, raw and kinda mildewy smelling even without any help from the hay, but Dean still had to force himself not to rip the burlap apart and tear into it.  It’d been way too long since he’d had fresh meat.  Hell, it’d been way too long since he’d had any meat, period.  If not for his rations at the shop – frickin’ oat cakes that he was sure only Sammy actually enjoyed, the freak – he would’ve starved months ago.  Not that Sam had to know that. 

 

Light glinted in from a crack in the folded ceiling.  The sky was starting to turn orange overhead.  Dean figured that gave him just under half an hour to get back before nightfall.  The sigh that left his body, deflating him, was childish, and he knew it, but it wasn’t like there was anybody out here to see.  Every time he came out here, it got a little bit easier to imagine running away, heading for the mountains and never looking back.  But he could never do that to Sam.  The guards, and the Games, and the world they lived in were all dangerous, but at least the odds weren’t stacked too high against his baby brother.  Out here, though?  Out here, Sam wouldn’t stand a chance. 

 

The thought of leaving him behind never even occurred to him. 

 

Dean gave a final, cursory glance around the rotted wood, then snatched the second sack from the ground and headed out. 

 

The bad part of what used to be called Kansas and was now just another speck in District 9 was that it was almost completely flat and barren.  No trees, few ponds, just fields and fields of wheat.  If they lived anywhere else in the district, that would be a real bitch.  Fortunately for Dean, though, they just happened to live in one of the few sections surrounded by untended fields.  The poison-oak-infested barley field around the barn wasn’t a one-off – most everything in this area was overgrown with poison something.  According to Dad, the guards had tried to burn it all down years ago, but the poison just kept growing back.  Eventually, they gave it up and moved the district fence back.  Their loss, Dean’s gain, because that meant the fence jutted up right against a wall of rotted corn almost as tall as the watchtowers. 

 

Speaking of, he spared the one nearest the fence a quick glance.  As usual, nobody was there.  More often than not, the guards were too busy getting drunk or screwing around to care what was going on in a moldy-ass field.  Good or bad, one of the few constants about District 9 was that nobody – not the guards, not the citizens, not the fucking Capitol – cared about it. 

 

Dean took a deep breath and made a break for it.  The gap under the fence was just high enough that he could skid right under without touching it.  Just a year ago, he barely even had to duck.  At eighteen, he almost grazed his arms every time he went under.  His only hope was that he’d finally stopped growing – six feet was plenty. 

 

Bones creaking more than they should have, he picked himself up and strolled through the knee-high grass.  The field tapered off at the end, leading to the main road where the farmers hauled their crops day-in and day-out.  The only other road in the district, the one used for machinery, intersected it just a few yards away.  A square stone hut sat at the juncture, still churning out smoke from its chimney.  He wasn’t late, then. 

 

He checked the coast a second time, just to be sure, then dropped the duck in the grass where it wouldn’t be seen.  He didn’t bother knocking at the hut – he just strode right in.  The door clicked shut behind him.

 

Two feet away, a woman in a tight black dress gave him the once over.  He tilted one corner of his mouth up, but that was all he could spare. 

 

“Mr. Winchester,” she drawled.  “Back so soon?”

 

Dean didn’t answer.  Wordless, he slammed the second burlap sack onto her desk.  She smiled at him, her eyes glinting red in the sunlight.

 

“Been busy, have we?”

 

She popped the thread at the top and sifted through the hay, tossing it out onto the floor until she found her prize at the bottom.  Dean couldn’t help but smirk – the hares he’d trapped and skinned for her were worth it.  Sure enough, she outright _grinned_ when she reached them.  The citizens weren’t the only ones who starved in District 9. 

 

“I believe that’s worth two entries.” 

 

The woman ignored him.  Still grinning, she pulled one hare out by its ear.  The pale, stripped skin looked right at home in her palm. 

 

Dean took a step closer, gritting his teeth. 

 

“Two entries,” he repeated.  “That’s what you said yesterday.” 

 

“Did I?”  She fixed a badly acted look of confusion onto her face, drawing one black-lacquered fingernail from her temple down to her chin.  If she’d been anyone else, he would’ve shot her a wink.  He might have even tried an actual smile.  “I don’t know, I mean, it’s just a couple of – ”

 

With a growl, Dean stepped around the desk and backed her into the wall.  He put his own hand behind her head, mostly to keep himself from hitting her, but also to be sure her head didn’t bounce against the wood.  Much as he wanted to, he couldn’t afford to bruise her. 

 

“That was the deal.” 

 

She licked her lips, soft and pale pink.  “Come on, boy.  You want to make a deal with me, you know what you have to do.”

 

Dean’s own lips curled in disgust.  Yeah, he knew.  He always knew.  Didn’t make it any easier. 

 

He hissed through his teeth and dove right in, mashing his lips against hers.  It was brutal, teeth and no tongue, but it got the job done.  She tasted, impossibly, like District 12 every fucking time – soot, and coal, and sulfur.  

 

Her fingernails grazed the curve of his ass, and he pulled back, snarling. 

 

“Two.  Entries.”

 

She rolled her eyes, utterly bored, and flung away the arm he’d braced against her throat. 

 

“Oh, fine.  You’re no fun.” 

 

She sauntered away from him, still swinging her hips way more than necessary, and stepped up to the register at the end of her desk.  Her fingers flipped through the pages, taking their sweet time about it, before finally picking up her pen and knocking off two lines at the bottom. 

 

“And that brings our little Sammy down to…”  She paused to cap the pen, shooting him another syrupy smile.  “Five entries.”

 

“Five?”  The blood froze in his veins.  “He shouldn’t have any!”

 

“Dean, you know I can’t just take him out of the running entirely.  Where would be the fun in that?”

 

“Just one, then!  How the fuck does he have five?”

 

The woman looked down at the register, briefly enough that Dean could tell she was only doing it for effect.  His fingers bit into his palms. 

 

“Looks like Sammy boy bought himself some entries so he could buy big brother a present.”  Her eyes flashed up at him again, sinister and smoldering.  “Nice amulet, _Dean_.” 

 

A lump lodged itself in his throat, choking him against the wire of his necklace.  “Son of a bitch…”

 

The woman smirked, all traces of boredom gone.  Dean didn’t care.  Sick and fuming, he churned his mouth, then spat the taste of her onto the floor.  The hay from the bag of hares stuck to his boot as he headed for the door.

 

“Pleasure doing business with you, Dean!” she called out behind him.  “And may the odds be ever in your – ”

 

Dean slammed the door in her face. 

 

 

 

The shack at the end of the maintenance road was every bit as battered down as the barn outside the fence.  Even by District 9 standards, it was uninhabitable.  Moss poured in from the cracked roof.  Tarps covered the cracked glass in the windows.  Electricity trickled in from a single, bent power pole by the fence line. 

 

Dean kicked open the door and scraped his dirty boots off on the “Welcome Home!” mat, the only thing left of their old house in the Victor’s Village – _Dad’s_ old house, anyway.  Rustling papers greeted him from the kitchen. 

 

“Sammy?” Dean shouted. 

 

The scribbling stopped.  A couple seconds later, a mop of brown hair attached to a string-bean of a boy flounced into the room.

 

“Hey, Dean!  I – ”

 

Dean didn’t let him finish.  Mouth tight, he grabbed Sam by the collar and shoved him. 

 

“When were you gonna tell me?”

 

Sam’s eyes went big, but, to his credit, he didn’t back off.  “Tell you what?”

 

“Cut the crap, Sam.”  He yanked the amulet off over his head.  “When were you gonna tell me this fucking thing was bought with blood money?”

 

“What?”  Under Dean’s fingers, Sam’s neck went clammy.  His expression shifted – not surprised, or afraid, but suspicious.  Dean tightened his fist.  “Wait, how do you know about that?”

 

Dean scowled.  “Nuh uh, dumbass, this is about you.  Why’d you do it?”

 

“You’ve been poaching again, haven’t you?” 

 

Dean tried to shake him again, get him to answer his damn questions, but Sam slapped his hands away.  Dean actually had to take a step back.  He didn’t know if he should be proud, or worried, or angry. 

 

“Dean,” Sam hissed, flopping his hair over his forehead, “you said you weren’t going out there anymore!  You said – ”

 

“Yeah, well, I say a lot of things.”  Sam opened his mouth, but Dean stepped right into his face.  “Sammy, I swear to God.  Just answer the damn question.”

 

His baby brother’s eyes narrowed into slits, his mouth and chin stuck in scowl mode.  A small part of him, one that wasn’t worried about tomorrow, wanted to rag him, clock his jaw and say, “Your face’ll get stuck that way.”  Instead, he crossed his arms and glared.   

 

Sam leaned away, pressed up against the moldy wall, and glared right back.  “It was your eighteenth birthday, Dean.”

 

He paused, as if that answered everything.  Dean didn’t even bother trying not to roll his eyes.

 

“And?”

 

“ _And_ , you never get anything.  It was just three entries, Dean.”

 

The last part was said low.  Quiet.  Dean couldn’t say he blamed him – the words alone were enough to make him blow his fucking lid.  If Sam had copped a tone on top of that…

 

“Please, it’s just three entries,” he repeated, solidly knocking him off his train of thought.  “It’s barely anything.  Most of the kids my age have ten or more!  You have, like, forty!”

 

“That ain’t the point, Sam.”  He clenched his jaw, counted to three.  “It ain’t any of your goddamn business, alright?  I take care of you, not the other way around.”

 

“You’re my brother, too, and I can take care of myself.”

 

“Take care of your – damnit, Sam, you could get yourself killed over this!  All over some stupid, fucking…”  His fingers clench around the amulet.  “Jesus, Sammy, you’re supposed to be the smart one!”

 

For a long moment, Dean thought that Sam might punch him.  It wouldn’t be the first time, but it would certainly be the first time in a good long while.  They hadn’t fought like that since Dad died. 

 

The same thought seemed to have occurred to Sammy.  Or, at least, something similar.  His brow softened, his shoulders sagging as the hot air seeped out of him.  All at once, he was just a thirteen-year-old beanpole.  He was just Dean’s baby brother. 

 

“Dean, let’s just… let’s just drop it, okay?”  He shuffled his feet, scraping himself awkwardly against the wall.  “I promise I won’t do anything like that again.  Alright?  I don’t wanna argue with you.  Not tonight.”

 

Okay, yeah, cause _that_ didn’t make him feel like a giant douchebag.  Dean deflated like a popped balloon.

 

“Look, Sam…”  He ran his hand through his hair.  “Damnit, I’m sorry.” 

 

Sam only shrugged.  “It’s fine, Dean.  Like I said, we can drop it.  Right?”

 

Dean nodded instantly.  “Yeah, man.  Yeah.” 

 

“Good.”  Sammy put on a small, entirely fake grin and sidled up to the burlap sack on the floor.  “So, what’d you bag us for supper?”

 

“Thought you said you didn’t like me poaching?”

 

Sam kicked him in the back of the leg, no real heat or strength behind it.  The bitchface slid off just long enough for him to smile, really smile.  Dean found himself returning it.

 

“Seriously, what’d you catch?”

 

“Duck.  Real fat one, too.”

 

“Yeah?”  Before Dean could do more than nod, Sam lunged, pulling him into a tight, bony little hug.  “You’re the best, Dean!”

 

Dean laughed, wrapping one arm around the kid’s neck even as he pushed him away with the other. 

“Alright, alright, enough with the chick-flick moment.  Just go pluck the damn thing while I start the fire, kay?”

 

Sam rolled his eyes, but he also picked up the bag and ran into the kitchen with it.  Dean followed, shaking his head as he put the amulet back around his neck. 

 

“And don’t think this is gonna be an everyday thing, alright?  It’s just cause this is a special occasion.”

 

They both knew he wasn’t talking about the Games.  That didn’t stop it from hanging over their heads, though. 

 

Sam’s smile fell a bit as he turned the duck out onto the cleanest part of the counter he could find.

 

“Thanks, Dean.”  His fingers shook as he started in on the waxy feathers.  “Just one more year, right?  Just gotta get through tomorrow.”

 

“Four years.”  Dean ripped the now-dry dish towel off of the fireplace/oven/stove in the corner.  “Gotta get you through this, too.”

 

“Yeah.  I guess.” 

 

Dean glanced over his shoulder.  If Sam kept going, he might end up taller than Dean, but he’d never be as big.  As strong.  His little brother was thin, and weedy, and awkward in the way that all teenage boys were.  His fingers weren’t calloused, or dirty, or cut.  He’d never so much as touched a knife, not even when he tried to help Dean cook. 

 

Dean closed his eyes, and, for half a second, he saw John, tired and ragged just like he was the last morning he’d spent alive.  “You keep Sammy safe,” he’d whispered, brushing back Dean’s hair as he did.  “You take care of your brother.”

 

 _I’m trying, Dad,_ he thought.  _I’m trying_.

 

With a calm he didn’t feel, he turned around and clapped his brother on the back. 

 

“Happy birthday, Sammy.”

 

“Thanks.”  He laughed, dry and humorless, as he plucked the final feather from the bird’s neck.  “And may the odds be ever in my favor.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets a surprise during the Reaping for District 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The goal at this point is to post a new chapter every week. We'll see how that goes :S

Three days have passed since Lucifer’s big announcement, and Dean has been drinking since.

 

Not that that’s anything unusual.  Dean has spent the last decade of his life in some state of drunkenness.  After the first kids died on his watch… well, he and liquor have never been strangers.

 

But, today, everything has taken on a blurry, rainy window quality and even his skin smells like whiskey.  He hasn’t slept for thirty-seven hours.  He hasn’t put down the bottle in sixty-five.

 

He _should_ be preparing for his inevitable Reaping.  There’s only one living victor in District 9, and he’s it.  It’s not like he isn’t aware, like that isn’t the single fucking thought running through his head, the reason that half of his liquor cabinet is empty.  He knows.  It’s just… he can’t.  He _can’t_ fucking deal with this.  Not now.

 

The small part of his brain that used to carry hope around is long dead by now, but the part next to it that reminds him to be charitable every so often blares the thought, “Thank God for Sammy.”  Unlike Dean, his genius little brother has at least some sense of… well, sense.  The moment the TV screen went blank, he was on his communicator with all of their necessary contacts.  Bobby and Jody are already here, both nursing their own glasses and giving him a much appreciated wide berth.  More than anybody else in his life, they know exactly what he’s going through right now.  Odds are, one of them is getting Reaped, too.  They just have to keep their fingers crossed that it won’t be both of them. 

 

Tessa – long-since retired as the Master of Ceremonies and now acting as District 9’s ambassador, chauffeuring children off to their deaths – showed up just a few hours ago.  She gave him a look when she came in, just as somber and sympathetic as always, but didn’t say anything.  He appreciates that, too.  He wouldn’t trust anyone else with her job. 

 

They’re just waiting on Cas and Gabe now.  They should’ve come in with Tessa, but they apparently missed the train, and who the fuck knows when they’ll be able to book another.  Dean huffs, the laugh buried beneath it heavy and bitter.  This is the first time Cas has actually been late for something, but it’s not the first time that he’s left Dean disappointed.  He doesn’t expect it to be the last, either. 

 

Wobbling, he picks himself up off the couch and staggers over to the liquor cabinet.  It and his soft, foamy mattress are about the only things that make this damn house worth living in.  It’s too damn big for just him.  Having Sam here for the past week has been both a blessing and a cruel reminder – before Luci’s announcement, he almost forgot that Sam didn’t actually live with him.  Now, he wonders if Sam ever will again. 

 

Heavy footsteps pound in from the other side of the room.  _Speak of the devil_ , Dean thinks to himself, pouring another shot as his gigantor baby brother wanders in.  Jody marches in after him, hands shoved into the pockets of her brown leather jacket.  She shares a look with Bobby that Dean catches in the glass.  It’s enough to confirm his suspicions that everyone in the house has been talking about him behind his back. 

 

His knuckles dig into the edge of the cabinet before he reminds himself to open the fucking thing. 

 

With all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, Sam sidles over to his side. 

 

“Hey, Dean,” he near-whispers. 

 

Dean rolls his eyes and pushes past the first row of bottles – wine, why the fuck does he even _have_ wine? – on the shelf.

 

Sam clears his throat and tries again. 

 

“They, uh… they’re about to Reap for District 3.”  He points, pointlessly, at the TV.  “You should probably watch.  You know, keep in the loop, size up your… your competition.”

 

“Other than Bobby and Jody, you mean?”

 

That clams him right the fuck up.  Just like it did the last two days when Sam tried the same shtick with the Reaping for 1 and 2.  Eventually, the kid’s gonna stop tiptoeing around him and the guilt trip isn’t gonna work anymore, but Dean’s gonna milk it till that happens.  With any luck, it’ll be after all of the Reapings are over. 

 

Behind him, Sam rocks from foot to foot, hands flapping against his pants pockets.  In the reflection, Dean can see Jody and Bobby shooting them both nervous glances.  Dean grits his teeth and turns from the cabinet. 

 

“You hear anything from Cas?” he growls.

 

Sam bites his lip, eyes boring into his communicator.  “Nothing, man.  Called him three times, but nothing.”

 

“Well, he knows how to answer the damn thing, so he better not try some stupid excuse.”  He thinks back to showing Cas how to use the comm in the first place, and his head hurts from the pressure of trying not to laugh at the memory. 

 

His brother tries to shrug, but it comes off nervous and skittery.  “Maybe their train stopped?  There’ve been power outages all over the place.  He wouldn’t be able to call if they’re working on it.”

 

Dean shakes his head.  Yeah, power outages are a thing, but a train direct from the Capitol shouldn’t be affected by it.  Dean’s only ever heard of one Capitol train malfunctioning, and, while that incident involved Cas, too, he sincerely doubts that this is the same situation. 

 

He pushes the memory of exploding lights out of his head, too, crossing his arms and focusing on Sam instead.

 

“Yeah, well… I don’t know why he didn’t just come with you in the first place.  Then he’d already be here and we’d just be waiting on Gabe’s sorry ass.”  He grips the edge of the cabinet.  “Did he even say why?”

 

It’s the fourth time Dean’s asked in the last week, but it still pisses him off when Sam shakes his head “no”.  Thoughts of Cas strung out, arrested, or worse invade his brain, and he finds himself clenching his fists.  He sent Sam to stay with Cas so he’d keep him safe, and that means sticking with him, not doing stupid shit like not answering their fucking calls.  It ain’t like him to give them full-out radio silence.  He’s blown Dean off before, sure, but never…

 

Dean curls his fists and takes a deep breath.

 

“Fine, whatever.  You heard from Gabe?”

 

Sam just sighs.  That’s answer enough. 

 

“Son of a bitch.” 

 

Sam steps closer, his fingers held up in front of his pockets, a half-attempt at holding out his hands as if Dean was a wounded animal. 

 

“They’ll be here,” he mutters.  “I bet Gabe just got distracted by some of his models or something.  They know how important this is.”

 

Dean’s fingers move to his temples, but he doesn’t say anything.  Sam takes another step closer.

 

“You need anything, Dean?”

 

“Yeah,” he huffs, as if it wasn’t already obvious.  Still, he gestures at the glass bottles behind him.  “I need a drink.  You want anything?”

 

“No.” 

 

He shrugs and dives back into the cabinet.  “Suit yourself.”

 

“You know, there is _one_ good thing about all of this.”  Sam laughs humorlessly, more like a single, aborted cough.  “Well, if you can call it ‘good’.”

 

“Oh yeah?”  Dean keeps digging – that old 150 proof rotgut is in here somewhere.  Unless Bobby’s taken it, anyway.  “What’s that?”

 

Behind him, Dean can feel his brother relax.  He rolls his eyes but doesn’t stop searching through the half-empty bottles. 

 

“This ‘victors only’ bullshit.  He’s really screwed himself with it.  I don’t know what he was thinking.”

 

Dean’s fingers finally close around dusty glass.  He hauls it out, pops the cork with his teeth, and downs the rest of it – maybe a fifth – in one go.  It burns all the way down, and he actually coughs some of it up.  If he could smile right now, he would – this is exactly what he needs. 

 

“Cut to the chase, Sam,” he finally coughs.  “How’d Luci screw himself?”

 

“Not all the districts have two living victors.  Hell, some don’t even have any female victors at all.”

 

“You mean like 9?”

 

“Yeah, I mean like 9.  Who the hell are they gonna pick to fight with you?”

 

Dean’s shoulders tense, a million and one answers coating his whiskey-thick tongue, but none of them come out.  Thankfully, they don’t have to – at the other end of the house, the front door has slammed open, and in waltzes the familiar clop of heeled boots.  Dean curses his breath and spins on his heel.

 

“Gabe, you better have one damn good excuse for – ”

 

Again, Dean’s words die in his mouth.  The guy walking through the door – and leaving it wide open, he notes – isn’t Gabe.  Isn’t Cas, either.  It’s plain as day that he’s just as much from the Capitol as the two of them, though.  He’s tall – not as tall as him or Sam but probably close to Cas – and clean, and everything about him _screams_ “stylist”, from his frou-frou blonde hair to his satin fucking _blouse_ that’s sliced all the way down to his belly-button.  Dude hasn’t said a word, but Dean can already tell that he’ll want to punch him in the face as soon as he does.

 

Bobby, Sam, and Jody all reach for guns that none of them should have, barrels pointed at Blondie.  The guy barely seems to notice. 

 

Dean throws back another shot and slams the bottle down on the table.

 

“The fuck are you?”

 

The guy has the _gall_ to roll his eyes at him.  “My name is Balthazar.  I’m going to be your Stylist this year.”

 

A small part of Dean’s brain high-fives itself, shouting, _Called it!_   The rest of him narrows its eyes and arches its brows.

 

“Yeah, I already got one of those.  Where’s Gabe?”

 

“He won’t be coming.  He elected to work with District 3’s tributes this year.”  Dean opens his mouth, but the guy – Balthazar, apparently, and here Dean thought that Cas’s name was unfortunate – keeps going.  “Look, Dean, it’s fine.  We’ve hit a bit of a snag, but we’ll work it out.  He and Cassie sent me, they want me to tell you –”

 

“Cassie?”  For a fraction of a second, he thinks of dark skin and pretty curls and wonders why the hell an ex-girlfriend he hasn’t heard from in over eleven years would send this fop to talk to him.  Then, for once, logic actually seeps into his little pea-brain and he gets a different idea entirely.  “Wait, are you talkin’ about Cas?”

 

Balthazar rolls his eyes yet again. 

“Yes, miracle of miracles, I’m talking about _Cas_.  Castiel goes by _so_ many names, all so mysterious.”

 

Dean ignores the barb for right now, but he files it away so he can sock the guy in the jaw later.  “Yeah, whatever.  What the hell are he and Gabe doing in District 3?  And why’d they send you?”

 

He huffs impatiently.  “That’s what I’m _trying_ to tell you.  Yesterday evening, dear old Luci passed a new decree, and now, among other things –”

 

The annoying little buzzer noise from the TV interrupts them.  Dean had learned to hate that fucking thing by the time he could walk, but the last twelve years have been particularly annoying. 

 

Eyes narrowed, he shoves his finger into Balthazar’s chest.  “Me and you ain’t done.”

 

Before the guy can respond – which, weirdly, he doesn’t look like he was going to – Dean turns toward his brother and Jody.  Bobby’s apparently taken up where Dean left off, rifling through the remains of the liquor cabinet. 

 

“Sam, I thought you said they were Reaping District 3.”

 

“I did.”  Sam looks every bit as confused as him, a thick line drawn between his eyebrows.  “I don’t know what’s going on.”

 

Behind him, Balthazar gives another of those long-suffering sighs.  Dean spins around, ready to smack more than just air out of the guy’s mouth, but his face stops him dead.  He still looks like a smarmy little dick, yeah, but that isn’t smugness or indifference in his eyes.  That’s fear.  Sadness. 

 

He looks up at Dean from under his eyelashes.  “We’ve got it under control,” he mutters.  “Cassie knew this was coming.  He knew to prepare for it.  That’s why he sent Sam back alone.”

 

“Sent me back…”  Sam meets Dean’s eyes over the back of the couch.  “What’s coming?”

 

The air seems to leave Dean’s body.  There’s a glint in his brother’s eyes that he’s seen one too many times over the past few years, and never wants to fucking see again.  Especially not now.

 

“What did he do?”  He doesn’t look away from his brother, and no one answers.  “Balthazar, what the fuck did Cas do?”

 

Balthazar says nothing.  Bobby, Jody, even Tessa, are dead quiet.  On the TV, the siren finally stops wailing and a stage fills up the screen.  A guy in a sequined black suit, just another Capitol stooge, smiles into the camera as the citizens file in.  They’re cleaner than the people in District 9, no motor oil or wheat shavings to be seen, and the courtyard is lit up with high-tech electric wiring instead of ashed-up old lanterns.  For the first time since he’s seen the other Districts, though, Dean barely notices. 

 

Solid as a rock, he thrusts his hand toward his brother.  “Sam, comm.  Now.” 

 

Sam takes the device off his wrist without question.  Dean waits barely two seconds before the thing is shoved into his hand.  On screen, the guy in the suit gives the usual spiel, prepping the vid that plays every fucking year and smiling like a clown when it gets to the part where the bombs go off.  Dean doesn’t watch.  His eyes are glued to the comm, scrolling through the codes till he reaches the one for Cas.  He hits the button to dial just as the video stops.

 

“Onto the main event!” the man shouts, clapping his hands in front of his face.  The camera pans out to show a top-heavy blonde with dimpled chipmunk cheeks, probably close to Jody’s age and wearing a similar outfit, and a waiflike redhead with big doe eyes.  There’s nobody on the male side of the stage. 

 

The comm rings.  And rings.  And rings.

 

“Today’s Reaping will go a little differently,” the guy says.  “As I’m sure you’ve noticed, we are sadly missing one of our beloved victors.  It is with the utmost regret that I must confirm the rumors I’m sure all of you have heard by now.  Two nights ago, Adam Milligan, winner of the 45th Hunger Games, flung himself from the factory roof and died.  As such, he will not have the honor of representing us in this year’s competition.”

 

The comm gives a final ring.  For a moment, Dean gets dead silence, then Cas’s voice filters out from the other end.  Dean curses, about to launch into a rant, when the words finally click.

 

“ _Hello?  Why… why do you want me to say my name?  Just say… I’m not – say I’m not here.  Hello?_ ” 

 

Dean slams the button and dials again. 

 

On the monitor, the manufactured “awws” from the crowd have finally died down.  The Capitol Stooge grins at them, then gives a subtle nod to the camera.  It zooms back into focus on just his face.

 

“Fortunately, our beloved President had the foresight to issue a new decree.”  With a smirk, he pulls out paper from his pocket and rolls it out on the stand in front of him.  “‘For our Second Quarter Quell, our 50th Anniversary Games – should any district have no living victors, the necessary male and/or female Tribute will be Reaped from a pool of all of that District’s citizens.  In order to make the competition more fair, no restrictions shall apply; any citizen above the age of twelve may be Reaped.’”

 

The crowd is still.  At the liquor cabinet, Bobby curses loud enough that Sam jumps.  “ _Any_ citizen?  What in the ever-loving…?”

 

The camera angle changes.  The Stooge winks.  His eyes gleam.  The comm rings. 

 

“Well, let’s not amp up the suspense any longer!  If you would…”

 

He gestures off stage, and another suit rolls in a glass dome filled to the top with slips of paper.  The comm falls silent, then,

 

“ _Why… why do you want me to say my name?_ ”

 

Dean hangs up and dials again. 

 

“For our 50th Hunger Games…”

 

“ _Why… why do you want me to say my name?_ ”

 

He hangs up and dials again.

 

“… District 3’s male Tribute will be…”

 

“ _Why –_ ”

 

He slams the button and presses it hard into his forehead.  On screen, the guy in the suit drops his hand into the fishbowl of names.  Impossible, implausible as it is, Dean knows what’s coming before the guy unfolds the paper, before he opens his mouth, before he shows the slip of paper to the camera.  He just knows. 

 

Sam reaches for his arm, but it’s too late. 

 

“Castiel Novak!”

 

The communicator slides from his hand and shatters on the floor. 

 

* * *

 

** May 2 – Year of the 38th Games **

 

Dean didn’t sleep.

 

He never slept the night before Reaping Day.  Even before he was old enough to have his name drawn, it just wasn’t something he was capable of.  He’d close his eyes, roll over in his cot, and see nothing but bloody kids screaming on their knees.  Every now and then, if he managed to drift off enough, those kids turned into Sammy. 

 

It didn’t take a lot of brainpower to know why he avoided sleep like the plague those nights.

 

With a huff, he rolled over, yet again, body curled toward the stove.  He could just make out Sam’s reflection in the grimy surface, shoulders rising and falling in his sleep.  He knew that, if he turned around (again), he’d see a wrinkle between his baby brother’s brows, one that didn’t belong on a newly-minted fourteen-year-old.  He’d been watching it, hoping it would smooth itself away, for the last hour-and-a-half.  It made him look tired.  It reminded him of John. 

 

Dean cursed under his breath.  He’d actually avoided thinking about their dad all night, a difficulty on the best of days and a damn impossibility the day of the Reaping.  For one, they always played that clip during the ceremony, the one of John slitting some kid’s throat then turning, eyes like steel, to glare at the drone camera overhead.  From a marketing standpoint, or whatever, Dean couldn’t really argue with it – John was the only victor District 9 had ever had in the 37-years the Games had been going.  Didn’t make it any easier to see his dad at seventeen, a killer through-and-through.

 

But that was just one of the reasons Dean found memories of his dad unavoidable today.  The other…

 

Sun beamed in through the slats in the boarded-up windows, blinding him pretty solidly.  The clock on the wall across from him read 8:00 AM.  Any minute now, the sirens would start blaring, reminding everyone to get down to the town square for the main event. 

 

He cursed, sighed, and pulled himself up onto his ass.  His eyes roamed over to Sammy, eyes shut and half-covered by his girly hair.  He tried – damn, he tried – but John’s voice flooded into his brain all the same. 

 

“You keep your brother safe,” he’d said, the last words he’d ever spoken to Dean before he was gunned down just outside the District fence.  “Keep Sammy from getting reaped.  And, if you can’t – ”

 

Dean grabbed his “pillow”, the rolled-up washrag on the floor, and chucked it at Sammy’s head.  For a second, at least, John’s voice went quiet. 

 

“Rise and shine, Sammy!”

 

Sam choked himself awake, flailing so hard on the bed that he almost threw himself off.  Dean snorted, then picked himself the rest of the way off the floor.  Sam had barely opened his mouth, no doubt to cuss his older brother out, when the sirens started in.  Dean’s timing had been perfect as always, it seemed. 

 

Across the floor, Sam’s spine was rigid, eyes wide like a cornered animal, that damn wrinkle still pressing against his brows.  Dean bit back the burn in his throat and clapped him in the shoulder.  It wasn’t like there was any comfort he could give him, and it wasn’t like that thought didn’t tear him to pieces.  Better instead to pretend that this was just any other day. 

 

His baby brother took a deep breath, then relaxed under Dean’s hand.  Not all the way, never all the way, but enough to make Dean’s stomach slide down his throat a little.  Dean gave him another clap, grateful beyond any words he could say even if he wanted to, then held out the canvas jacket that counted as Sam’s best outfit.

 

“Time to get this show on the road, right?”

 

It took them just under two minutes to get dressed and out the door.  They’d both fallen asleep in their clothes, as usual, so all they needed was jackets and boots.  Dean didn’t bother with breakfast – he knew that neither of them would be able to hold anything down. 

 

Outside, the rest of the neighborhood was already trickling down the maintenance road.  Mostly older folks, mechanics and the like who worked with Dean down at the factory, but there were a few kids spaced out here and there.  All of them wore their nicest clothes, lace dresses and button-up shirts.  It made Dean think of virgin sacrifices to pagan gods, and the frown on his mouth deepened.  His imagination always was for shit.

 

Mr. and Mrs. Moore from the barley farm at the other end of town brought up the rear.  No kids, just tearstained napkins and shaking hands.  Sam’s eyes followed them like a spectator at a train wreck, desperate to look away and unable to make himself.  Their daughter, Jessica, had been in Sam’s grade, a tall, lanky girl with wavy blonde hair and a sweet smile.  She was the first real crush Sam had ever had.  This would make a year since she’d been pinned to a tree and burned alive, an early casualty of the 37th Games. 

 

Dean shivered, then reached out to pull on his brother’s arm.

 

“Hey, Sammy?”

 

Sam lifted his head, eyes squinted against the sun.   Damn, he looked so young.  Thin, bony, and fucking terrified. 

 

Whatever he’d wanted to say choked in his throat.  Before Sam could do anything, like move, he surged forward and pulled him into a hug. 

 

Sam tensed up.  Dean couldn’t blame him – they never hugged.  Not when John died, not when Jess was killed… it just didn’t happen.  But, right now, watching his baby brother stare at the parents of his dead girlfriend, hands clenched at his sides, Dean couldn’t think of anything else to do.  

 

His eyes burned behind the lids when he finally felt Sam’s arms curl around him.

 

_You keep your brother safe, Dean.  Keep Sammy safe._

 

He sniffed – loudly, obviously, and that just made him hate himself – then smacked Sam on the chest and pushed himself off. 

 

“You go on and get settled, okay?  Keep with the Moores, don’t wander off.  I’ll catch up in a minute.”

 

Sam blinked, still staring at the space at Dean’s chest he’d just occupied. 

 

“Catch up?  Where are you going?”

 

“I’m just gonna go take care of a thing.  Don’t worry, I’ll be back before it starts.”

 

His brother’s eyes narrowed into snaky little slits, but it didn’t last for long.  Half a second later, his shoulders deflated, and he just bit his lip and nodded.  He had to understand that Dean wasn’t just leaving him for nothing – he was a smart kid, he knew the importance of saying nothing to mean everything in public. 

 

“Don’t do anything stupid, Dean.”

 

“Me, stupid?”  Dean scoffed.  “It’s like you don’t even know me.”

 

He didn’t stick around to see the bitch face Sammy was no doubt shooting at him.  Careful of the funeral procession – and that’s really all the crowd was, Capitol be damned – he wound his way over to the grain dispensary on the other side of the road.  A single guard stood watch outside,  gun at the ready.  Dean shot him a look, lips parted and eyes wide, and the man just looked the other way.  Inside, Dean swallowed the bile and thanked God that the guard’s mask hid the stupid little smirk Dean could _feel_ like slime on his skin.  But he could worry about paying the dude back after Reaping Day was over.  Right now, he had bigger fish to fry.

 

The metal door creaked when he slid it open, the rusty echo of something long past its prime but still swinging on its hinges.  If Dean had been into that sort of thing, he would’ve considered it the perfect metaphor, considering who the sole occupant of the room behind it was.

 

“Bobby.”

 

Bobby didn’t move.  His back was still to Dean, hunched over a table and covered in that damn canvas jacket that wasn’t even in style 200 years ago.  One hand clutched a yellowy flask that Dean could smell a yard away.  The other was clenched into a fist at his side.  It wasn’t funny – hell, this practically told Dean all he needed to know about how this year’s Reaping had gone so far – but Dean couldn’t keep the smile off his face.  No matter the circumstances, it was always good to see him.

 

“I was hoping they’d send you this year,” he said, slamming the door – loudly – behind him.  “I like Ellen just fine, but, man, this year… it’s really gettin’ to me.  Three muttations this year, and it isn’t even fucking June yet.  Got lucky yesterday, though.  Just some rabbits and a duck.”

 

“Good for you.  Seen five mutts up in District 6 myself.”

 

Bobby’s voice had Dean stopping in his tracks.  Bobby Singer was not sugary sweet kinda man.  “Gruff” was more like it; “pissy”, if Dean felt like being honest.  This was neither of those things – Bobby sounded like he’d dug himself out of his own grave.

 

Dean gulped.

 

“Hey.”  He dropped his voice, not enough to sound weak – never, not in front of Bobby – but enough to cut down the weight of the executioner’s block beneath them.  “Hey, Bobby?  Who is it?”

 

He still didn’t turn around.  Or lift his head.  He _did_ pass Dean his flask, though.  Dean’s hand shook as he reached out to touch it for the first time, knowing the answer well before it left Bobby’s mouth.

 

“It’s Jo.”

 

The liquor burned Dean’s throat like nothing he’d ever had before – had to have been brewed inside a shoe, based on the taste – but he didn’t even think about turning it away.  No wonder Bobby was in the state he was in. 

 

“Damnit.  I… damn, Bobby, I didn’t know.  I’m so –”

 

“You tell me you’re sorry, and I’ll reach around and jam that flask up your ass, boy.”

 

Dean laughed, a total reflex, but he did as he was told.  Bobby never demanded respect like John had, but he’d certainly earned it.  Dean took a second swig, then passed the metal cannister to its owner.  The moment it was back in his hand, his whole body eased up. 

 

“And no shit you didn’t know about it, Sherlock.  That ain’t the kinda thing they broadcast to the masses.  Gotta wait for the Games to start before you see the full lineup.”

 

He lifted the flask, took two solid gulps that should’ve drained the whole damn thing, then curled it back into his fist.  With a sigh, he pushed himself off the table and turned around.  Dean had to force himself not to wince.  Haggard and drawn, Bobby looked even worse than he sounded, beard scruffier than usual and eyes rimmed red and bloodshot.  He smelled like he hadn’t bathed in a couple days.  Maybe a week.  Dean clapped his arm around the man’s neck all the same, and Bobby wasted no time in clutching him back.  They both sniffled, then drew away. 

 

“How’s… how’s Ellen?”

 

Bobby snorted.  “Pissed, more ‘an anything.  Raised some high hell about them not having the right to draft her.  Not that that stopped them.  And not that that stopped her.”

 

They both allowed themselves a short smile at that.  Bobby's second wife wasn't a pistol, she was a friggin' shotgun.  But Bobby didn’t mention how Jo was doing, and Dean didn’t ask.  She was twelve – how did any twelve-year-old handle this bullshit?  He’d grown up with that kid, though, descendants of Victors as they were, and he would bet his bottom dollar that she pulled some shit about being old enough to take care of herself.  Had he not been afraid that it’d start the water works, he would’ve rolled his eyes at the thought.

 

Bobby cleared his throat.

 

“Anyway, the hell are you doin’ going out of bounds?  Thought Ellen told you last year to cut that shit out.”

 

“She did.”  Dean shot off his most charming smirk.  “I didn’t.”

 

The old man looked thoroughly unimpressed.  “Figures.  And here I thought Sam inherited John’s stubborn streak.”

 

Dean knew it was meant as an insult, but he still took the comparison as a compliment.  He also heard the unspoken apology.  If he thought it’d do him any good, he might have told Bobby to stop blaming himself for telling John the truth all those years ago.  From what he remembered of the story, the two were drunk off their asses at one of the Capitol-enforced get-togethers the Victors had to do when Bobby let slip that the Games people were letting their failed muttations loose in the wastelands between the districts.  But it wasn’t his fault that John took that as all the invitation he needed to start hunting the bastards.  It wasn’t his fault that that meant John taught Dean how to do it, either.  Mary was already dead, and John was looking for whatever kind of fight he could get his hands on.  That’s how he lived, and that’s how he died, the sole Victor of District 9. 

 

Still, fucked up as it was, Dean depended on that guilt.  John had been dead for two years now, and that meant the Capitol had to ship in another Victor to act as the Tributes’ mentor.  Dean, at least, had gotten lucky that District 6 was the closest.  Ellen had come last year, but that still meant a smuggled letter to Bobby asking for advice on ganking the wasp-looking things that had gotten loose at the time.  It took three months for Bobby to get around to sneaking a reply back, by which point Dean had almost run out of creative ways to hide the boils from their stings.  Dean wasn’t gonna waste the chance he had this year to talk to him in person. 

 

Sure enough, Bobby set his flask on the table and rolled his eyes.

 

“Balls.  Well, what’re you huntin’ now?  Apes?  Tracker-jackers?”

 

“No.  These things are new.  Ain’t seen one up close yet, but they leave pawprints like dogs.  I’ve heard some of the guards call ‘em Hell Hounds.”

 

Bobby shot him a look that Dean chose to ignore – the old man knew just what Dean was doing to get so close to the guards that he could hear them say anything, much less something that classified – then hummed low in his throat.  “Hell Hounds, huh?  Can’t argue with the name.  I’ve seen a couple myself, and they’re some mean sons o’ bitches.  Haven’t worked out how to kill ‘em yet.”

 

Dean arched an eyebrow.  “Really?”

 

“Don’t gimme that, I ain’t no spring chicken, boy.  Besides, I’ve been a bit preoccupied.” 

 

Silence echoed off the walls.  The memory of a little blond girl with sassy eyes and a sweet smile pushed itself to the forefront of both of their minds.  Dean could almost see her reflection in Bobby’s eyes.  In a few days, they’d have to watch that little girl kill.  They’d have to watch her kill, or be killed. 

 

Past the metal walls, the last call siren went off.  Dean’s blood ran cold, that jittery funk in his stomach curdling all over again.  Bobby clapped him on the shoulder and handed him his flask.  There was enough at the bottom for half a good swig, but Dean downed it all the same.  He could always count on Bobby.  Always.

 

“Better get back out there.  Before they notice somebody’s missing.  I’ll sneak over after the funhouse so we can talk shop.”

 

Dean nodded, then gave him the best approximation of a salute he could manage with shivering, clammy hands. 

 

“It was good to see you, Bobby.”

 

Neither of them smiled.  “You, too, son.”


	3. Chapter 3

For a long time, Dean doesn’t move.  Doesn’t breathe.  A loose piece of the broken communicator cuts into his shoe, someone is saying his name, but those things might as well be happening a thousand miles away.

The camera pans, and a different part of District 3 floods the screen.  A lone figure marches through the silent crowd, trenchcoat fluttering behind him.  His back is straight, his steps even, but it’s forced – Dean can tell.  He’s known the guy long enough to know when he’s in pain.  Based on what he’s seeing, there are at least a few bruised ribs and a twisted knee under that coat.

Cas stops long enough to shoot what Dean is sure is a fucking freezing glare at the Capitol fuckwad next to the stage, then steps up by himself.  Dean’s stomach lands somewhere near his feet when he turns to face the audience.  His face is dried blood, one cheek swollen, the other cut to ribbons all under his eye.  His lips are more chapped than usual.  His five o’clock shadow is darker.  But he just stands there, stoic.  No movement, no words, no expression, as far as anyone can see.  But _Dean_ sees.  Dean sees _everything_.

And, then, Dean is moving.  He’s roaring like a goddamn lion, fists clenched so tight he can feel his palms bleeding well before they shoot through the TV monitor.  It crashes to the ground, and he stomps right through its face, over, and over, and over again.  The fucking thing lights up like a firework, sparking, scratching, shrieking, before finally sputtering out and fading to black.  Cas’s ice cold stare disappears beneath his boot. 

“Dean…”

He doesn’t turn around.  His eyes are glued to the broken glass.  Everything in his brain has screeched to a standstill like rusted machinery.  He’s too old for this shit.  He’s too damn old for all of this shit.

“Hey, can… can you give us a second?  Not you.”

Somebody – Bobby, he guesses – hefts themselves off the couch.  A few pairs of feet echo toward the front door.  None of them have heels.  It creaks open, snaps shut.  Dean keeps his eyes on the floor.

“I am sorry, for what it’s worth.” Balthazar’s shoes clack on the tile.  “I had hoped to reach you before the proverbial shit hit the fan.  Damned Capitol trains.”

“How the hell is this even possible?  Cas isn’t from District 3.  As far as anybody knows, he’s not from anywhere.  He doesn’t have a paper trail – I know, I’ve looked.”

Dean blinks – he didn’t know that Sam actually vetted Cas out – but he doesn’t say anything.

Balthazar laughs dryly.  “And Gabe had insisted that you were the smart one.  In case you haven’t noticed by now, dear old Luci does whatever he feels like.”

“Okay, fine.  Then why did he feel like it?”

“Because of you, Sam.”

Slowly, Dean turns around.  Sammy’s doing his best impression of a Great Dane in a cat bed, legs hanging off the chair sagging below him, but he still looks every bit as confused and beat up and worried as Dean feels.  Despite that hollowed out look in his eyes, Balthazar just looks smug.  Dean grits his teeth when the dude lifts his head from Sam to smirk at him.

“Ah, good of you to join us, Dean.”

“Explain.  Now.”

“Touchy, touchy.”  Something in Dean’s face must say that he’s not putting up with any bullshit, cause that’s the only comment Balthazar makes.  With a roll of his eyes, he plants his feet and turns so he’s facing both brothers equally.  “Lucifer found out that you aren’t quite as dead as he’d been led to believe, Sam.”

It happens all at once.  It ain't a gradual thing that builds, like Sam's anger or compassion.  Fear hits his brother over the head like a frying pan, crashing down around him and leaving him shaky, wide-eyed, and pale.  Even in this moment, Dean has an unshakable urge to pull Lucifer in by his collar and plow a bullet through his brain.

"What?  But... but I never leave.  I stay in that damn bunker with Cas all the time, how - "

"I don't know.   _We_ don't know."  He almost looks genuinely sorry.  Dean feels like shooting him, too.  "Cassie's surveillance scrambler could have failed, someone may have broken in, someone we trusted..."

Sam's eyes twitch.   _Well, let's add Ruby to the list_ , Dean thinks.  It doesn't matter that a bullet to the brain wouldn't do her much good considering that he shoved a knife through her guts a solid ten years ago, he'd still resurrect the bitch just to do it all again.  

Dean takes a deep breath and curls his fingers into his palms.  "Alright, he got found out.  Shouldn't be fucking possible, but we can worry bout the how later.  Is he in trouble?  Does Lucifer know he's here?  And the hell does that have to do with Cas?"

 

Balthazar clicks his tongue, and Dean swears to a God he probably never believed in that he will choke the guy to death with his own scrap of shirt if he says something smartass.  But maybe God does exist and just has a horrible sense of when to intervene.  It wouldn't surprise him.  

"Sam's in no more danger than he is on a regular basis.  Cassie and Gabe smuggled him out well before the Capitol drones could swarm in, so I doubt they know where he is.  I said that anyone with half a brain would assume he'd come here, but Cassie insisted that Lucifer would never assume that either of you could be stupid enough to risk that."

The look in Balthazar's eyes is enough to tell Dean exactly what he thinks about the plan.  For half a second, Dean almost wants to smile.  Double bluff - not bad, Cas.  But then he thinks about four days ago, about that familiar cold chill when he stepped into his room, the red gold eyes glaring at him over the table, and it doesn't seem so funny.  Cas must've timed Sam's exit perfectly - he didn't show up until right after Lucifer left.  

"Of course, that's not the only brilliant idea our little secret agent had."  Dean blinks, crawling back up from the memories, to see Balthazar's legs and arms crossed, eyes narrowed into beady little slits as he no doubt glares down an invisible Cas.  "Oh no, he decided that the only thing that could make it better would be to sacrifice himself.  Let Luci think he'd won the grand prize, then reveal that it was only him.  At least he got that part right, though.  I was convinced that they'd kill him on the spot.  Apparently, Lucifer is much more petty than I give him credit for."

Sam jumps a little in his seat.  "You mean... Cas  _planned_ on getting caught?  On getting Reaped?"

"Yes, unfortunately.  He was completely banking on the fact that Lucifer would want to prolong and publicize his suffering for the deception.  It seems he was correct."

Dean can feel Sam' staring at him.  He can, and he ignores it.  They're both thinking the same thing, probably, though he's sure that Sam's being a lot more charitable about it.  Dean's brain is a constant loop of, "Cas, you fucking idiot."  But it's a shallow anger.  Cas takes everything way too damn literal, and Dean's known that from the start.  So when he made Cas promise to do whatever he had to to keep Sam safe... 

Dean closes his eyes.  The glass crinkles beneath his boots. 

"Well, if that's all you had for me, perhaps we can get started on your wardrobe.  I was thinking something in -"

“Get out.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Just… fuck off, alright?  He sweeps his hand through his hair.  “There’re rooms upstairs.  Pick one, and stay there.  Make me a fucking tutu, I don't give a shit.”

There’s no real heat behind the words, but there could be.  Very easily.  Balthazar seems to reach the same conclusion, and, while he looks insulted as hell, he keeps his trap shut and marches himself off. 

Dean waits until the sound of his stupid fucking shoes gets muffled by the carpet.  When he finally breathes, he sags against the wall with both hands in his hair.  Sam is standing in front of him in two seconds.

“Dean, I – ”

Dean holds one hand up.  “Don’t.  Don’t give me any crap.”

“But – ”

“No, Sam!”  He growls, then pushes himself up.  “Look, I know what you’re gonna say, so save it.  I don't want your apologies, I don't want your anything.  I’m gettin’ Cas outta this.  End of story.”

Sam huffs.  “Oh yeah?  Like you did with Jo?”

Dean’s fist flies.  His little brother’s head cracks back and slams into the wall.  A long moment passes, the ancient clock ticking on the wall behind them, before Sam tilts his face forward again.  A trickle of blood works its way down from his mouth where Dean must’ve caught his teeth.  He lifts his thumb to wipe it off.  Dean says nothing.  Regret doesn’t come as easy as it used to. 

Sam takes a deep breath and takes a step closer.  Dean lifts both hands, balled up and ready to go.  If he’s being honest with himself, he’s been itching for a fight, and has been for a long damn while.

But Sam doesn’t give it to him.  Sammy never does.

“Dean…”  His little brother wipes off the rest of the blood and sighs.  “I deserved that.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean it that way, I swear.  I know you still… that you blame yourself…”

He takes another deep breath and looks down at his ginormous moose feet.

“And I am so, _so_ sorry about Cas.  If I'd known what he was planning... Look, all I was trying to say is, you and I both know how the Games work.  I don’t like it any more than you do, but… Dean, you _know_ …”

Sam drones off.  Dean’s thankful for it – at least, as thankful as he can be about anything right now.  He doesn’t need to know that he’s got a snowball’s chance in Hell of dragging Cas out with him.  That doesn’t mean he won’t do it, though.  One way or another.

He turns from his baby brother to open up the glass liquor cabinet again.  He flicks his eyes up to look at Sam’s reflection.  For half a second, he expects to see a floppy-haired boy, shuffling his feet and silently praying that Dean won’t be too mad at him.  Of course, that’s not what he gets.  Sam finally lived up to the ever-constant threat of being the taller Winchester, and, while his hair still hangs in his face, his eyes don’t hold an ounce of remorse.  Just pity.  Guilt, maybe.  But those ain’t the same thing.  It’s hard to believe that this is the same little kid who, just twelve years ago, tried to convince him that District 13 would swoop in and save the day before Dean got any blood on his hands.

He’ll be damned if he admits it, even to himself, but he’d give almost anything to get that kid back.

He grabs a fucking bottle of wine and uncorks it with his teeth.  It tastes like vinegar and raisins, but he downs the whole thing.  He keeps his eyes on the peeling label as he shoves past his brother.

“Yeah, well…  This year’ll be a surprise for everyone then, won’t it?  First time for everything.  I’m headed to bed.  Don’t wait up.”

 

** May 2 – Year of the 38th Games **

By the time Dean had made his way past the check-in point and into the town square, it was too late to find Sam.  Not that they could have stood next to each other anyway – all of the eligible slaughter-ees were segregated by age.  Still, he didn’t let his shoulders unclench until he saw that mop of brown hair five rows up.  The relief didn’t last long.  Two seconds after he shuffled into his own spot at the very back of the crowd, the screen overhead lit up, and the ceremony music started.  That all-too-familiar prickle of terror spiked his spine, but he shoved it down.  This was the last time he could be ever be picked.  The last fucking time.  Then it was just four more years, and Sam would be safe, too.

He held onto that reminder like a lifeline as Bobby staggered upstage, flanked by two guards in their Stormtrooper get-ups and a fancy-ass blonde with near-black eyes.  Dean rolled his own – apparently, she liked the new Capitol trend of black-out contacts.  Personally, Dean ranked it on the same level as douchebags who wore sunglasses indoors.  But he kept his eyes on her and Bobby.  It was better than rewatching that reel of John onscreen.

Finally, the film flickered away, and the blonde stepped up to her podium.

“Hello, and welcome to the 38th Annual Hunger Games.”

Dean almost laughed.  Whoever this lady was, he guessed they hadn’t told her that she was supposed to sound high on cocaine for these kinds of gigs.  Chirpy voice, lots of smiles and clapping, maybe two brain cells to rub together on a good day.  Instead, she just sounded completely fucking bored.  Apparently, not even the Capitol bozos who’d been assigned to District 9 this year could be bothered to give a shit about it.

“Well, I guess we should get started,” she drawled, as if the thought had honestly just occurred to her.  “Ladies first.”

She reached out to grab for the paper slips in the glass bowl to her left.  The girls in the crowd froze up like popsicles, but the bitch on stage didn’t care.  She just grabbed one and held it up.  Dean had to hand her that, at least – she wasn’t playing the usual game of upping the suspense as if this was _The Bachelor_.

“The female tribute for District 9 will be Bela Talbot.”

Dean looked around the courtyard.  He didn’t recognize the name, but that didn’t mean much – he didn’t recognize most people.  He preferred it that way.  Finally, a short brunette near the back stood up.  To Dean’s surprise – and, yeah, a little amusement – she looked more irritated than upset, like her biggest concern about having to participate in the Games is that it would screw up her social calendar. 

Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she stepped across the people in her row to get to the middle aisle.  The drone camera zoomed in close, picking up her steely eyes and pouty mouth.  The screen never flickered toward the audience.  If Dean had been a good person, he might’ve pitied her – the only thing that meant was that she had no friends or family whose horrified reactions the Capitol could milk.  When this girl died, nobody was gonna care at all.  And everything about how she held herself said that she knew it, too.

Dean immediately decided that he was gonna love this chick, or he was gonna absolutely hate her. 

The blonde waited half a second, just long enough for Bela to take her place onstage and strike a pose – a snooty little wrinkle of her nose and crossed arms – then turned to the other bowl of names.  All the lightness in Dean’s body was crushed like an anvil.  Just a few dozen yards away were forty-three slips with his name, and five with Sammy’s.  All this stupid bitch had to do was grab the wrong one.

 _Just four more years_ , he reminded himself.  _One for you, four for Sam.  You can do this.  You can make it._

She took a slip from the very top and unfolded it on her podium.

 _You can make it_.

She cleared her throat.

_Just four more years._

“The male tribute for District 9 will be Sam Winchester.”

A bullet speared through Dean’s brain.  His whole body went numb.  That wasn’t… he hadn’t heard right.  This couldn’t…

The drone camera zoomed in closer.  The name “Sam Winchester”, perched between two manicured fingernails, filled the screen.

Dean tried to swallow, but his throat wouldn’t work.  No.  No, this was just a dream, another one of those fucking nightmares.  Any second now, a swarm of unicorn pink tracker-jackers would flood the town square, honed in him like a magnet, then John would rise from the grave and start shouting about how Dean had failed him.  Just like any other night.  He’d wake up, and it’d all be over.  This was just a nightmare. 

He closed his eyes, counted to two, and looked back up.  The scene hadn’t changed.  His baby brother’s name was still broadcasted for the whole world to see.  Behind Bela and the blonde, Bobby stumbled back into the wall.  Even from the last row, Dean could see the tears in his eyes.  His mouth formed a single, short, “No.”  He didn’t even reach for his flask.

The crowd shifted.  A boy, scrawny and scraggly with girly brown hair, worked his way past the people up front.  He looked so small.  So, so fucking small.  The screen switched from the paper to his face, solemn and surprised in a way that no fourteen-year-old should ever have looked.  Especially not Sam.  Especially not Sammy.  Dean was supposed to keep him safe.  He was supposed to…

Sam’s foot touched the middle aisle, two guards near the stage closing in, and that was it.  Dean was running before he even realized he’d told his body to move.

“Sam!  SAM!”

Sammy turned around, but the guards were already right there, their stupid gloved hands bearing down on his shoulders.  His baby brother was shaking.

“Dean?”

“Sammy!”

Another guard slid right into Dean’s face.  “Hey, what’re you – ?”

Dean socked him in the jaw, and he went down.  Three other guards rushed forward, guns drawn and cocked.  There wasn’t another sound for miles.  Even the birds were quiet.  But John Winchester’s voice was loud and clear in Dean’s head.

_You keep Sammy safe...  You keep him from being Reaped...  And, if you can’t –_

“I volunteer.”

“What was that?”

Sam whimpered.  “Dean, no.”

“I said I volunteer, damnit!”

The camera whirled around and landed on him.  A bright light throbbed somewhere just below it, but he didn’t blink.  He stared at the guard, then up at the bitch.

“I volunteer.”

Bela cocked her eyebrow.  A few people in the audience actually fucking gasped.  Sam’s mouth had fallen open.  Bobby had stopped dead.  Dean saw it all, but he didn’t look.  Rigid as a rock, he stared straight into that pair of black eyes.

With a smirk, the blonde held his gaze right back, then nodded.

“Well, I guess District 9 has its first ever volunteer.”

She clicked her tongue, and the guard holding Sam let go.  Breathe flooded Dean’s body like a gale-force wind.  His heart was still pounding a mile a minute, but at least Sam was safe.  At least he could breathe.

Sam barreled down the aisle like a steam train and rammed right into Dean’s chest.  Dean held them both steady, legs shaking but feet braced against the dusty ground.  He let his arms wrap around the kid for two seconds, maybe three, taking in the wet stain growing on his shoulder and the smell of hay in his brother’s hair.  Then, he pushed Sam back and coughed.

“You sit back down, and you stay there.”

“Dean – ”

“Damnit, Sam.”  He bit his tongue till he tasted blood.  “Just do what I said, okay?  You can see me when it’s over.  Okay?”

Sam shook his head against Dean’s neck.  The blood in his mouth wasn’t enough to keep his hand from shaking as he pulled it through his little brother’s ragged mop of hair.

“Okay?  Please, Sam…”

He couldn’t see if Sam listened.  The crowd of white metal suits was suddenly too thick between them.  A gloved hand yanked Sam toward the audience.  Another dragged Dean toward the stage.  There were three, five, eight bodies between them.  Everything was just white.  Then, Dean’s feet hit the stairs, and all he could see was the black in the bitch’s eyes.  She was still smirking at him.

“What’s your name?”

“Dean.  Dean Winchester.”

She smiled, genuine and impressed.  It looked like poison.  “Of course it is.  Guess that makes you big brother, then, huh?”

His head jerked up and down a single time, the most he could manage.  But it was enough.  The screen on Dean’s right zoomed back, and then it was just him, and Bela, and the blonde between them.  Up there, with the light in his eyes, he couldn’t see anything else.

“Well, there you have it – our tributes for District 9.”

Not a damn sound filled the town square.  The camera clicked off.  The drone dropped to the dirt.  The screen went blank.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the ridiculous wait, guys. I don't know how many of you are actually following this story (if anyone is), but I've been terrifyingly busy since about March. Here's hoping that I'll have enough time from now through the end of the year to get some more writing done. And, as always, please feel free to leave me feedback.

Bobby and Jody both ship out two days later.  They take their time saying goodbye to Sam, their whispers carrying just enough for Dean to hear the voices but not the words.  They don’t do or say anything to Dean.  It’s an unspoken promise, one that hangs around the house like smoke.  One or both of them will be seeing him again in the Capitol soon enough.

Three days later, the TV is still broken and shorted out downstairs.  Dean doesn’t replace it to find out which one.  Neither does Sam.

Four days later, Dean finally leaves his room.  It isn’t a victory.  He floats through the house like the ghost of John Winchester, drinking when he can and staying the hell away from Sam, Tessa, and Balthazar when he can’t.  By the end of the night, the liquor cabinet is empty.

It’s too risky to sneak out past the fence, but, five days later, Dean does it anyway, wading through poison ivy to reach his dad’s old barn.  Bobby’s voice comes to him from twelve years ago, his warning – “Ain’t no way they’ll let you have a gun in there, boy” – but he digs out his old pearl-handled pistol all the same.  The sound of bullets piercing the air and that old hay-bale-turned-target echoes through the field for the next four hours.  If he had it in him, Dean would smile.  Just let someone come and catch him – ain’t no way Lucifer’s gonna let anything take him out before the Games.  Besides, he could use some live target practice.

But six days isn’t long at all.  Not outside the Arena.  He’s barely worked himself into a proper hangover, much less a proper rage, and the latter means a hell of a lot more to his survival than the fact that he should have spent the last week preparing himself to kill again.

It’s all a dull beat in the back of his brain when Sam’s giant ape hands slap him awake and haul him off the couch.

He’s not exactly alert, especially not as much as he should be today, but, somehow, there’s a piping mug of coffee in his hands, and that’ll have to be enough.  He manages to down the whole thing before they reach the upstairs bathroom closest to them.  He starts to demand another, but Sam shoves him into the shower before he can finish – no words, just a grim frown.  He curses – loudly – but nothing past that.  Even half awake, he knows not to be too much of a douche today.  Besides, it’s not the best shower he’s ever had, but it’s still a shower, and he needs to savor it while he can.  Good water pressure, steam even hotter than his coffee.  It feels good to wash off the dried spit and sweat and liquor clinging to his skin.  He’ll be needing to wash off more than that all too soon.

He stays in just long enough to wake up, more because of Sam’s insistence than any actual sense of urgency.  If he had his way about it, he’d stay until the water turned cold, and that’s a long ass time in this house.  The water heater is probably the size of the bedroom he had as a kid.

Eyes closed, shower droplets stuck to his lashes, he takes one last moment to himself then slams the water off.  Sam pokes his head in, no coffee or bourbon to be seen, and Dean grits his teeth as he dries off and pulls on his robe.  That dumb Bambi look is still in his brother’s eyes, Dean can feel it, but he refuses to see it again.  He keeps his head down as he shoulders the door open the rest of the way and walks by.  

They keep a solid two feet of space between them all the way down the hall.  They’ve passed the sixth totally friggin’ useless spare bedroom when Sam grunts, herding him into the room on the left.

Dean blinks at the sudden change of light, stomach churning, when another pair of hands yanks him forward.

“Ah, good, he lives.  More or less.”

It takes Dean a couple seconds to remember why he hates that snobby British voice, apart from the obvious, and a few more to notice all the covered mannequins lurking around the room.  They’re fucking creepy, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little impressed – the outfits they’re wearing all look finished.  Seems like Balthazar kept himself busy.

“If you’ll just step up here, Dean.”

Dean recognizes the lack of a question, but he’s too tired to bitch about it.  Small potatoes to be bitching about today, anyway.  Instead, he elbows Sam off – gently, this time, more of an “I got this” than a complaint – and marches up to the strobe-lit mirror in the center of the room.  Tessa’s face stares back him in the reflection, only visible now that he’s at the right angle.  She’s half hidden in a corner behind Sam where they hadn’t seen her.  She smiles with half of her mouth and neither of her eyes, then gives him a little wave.  It isn’t even remotely a relief, but he almost appreciates it all the same.

“Now, bear in mind, these won’t be a perfect fit.  _Someone_ ,” Balthazar mutters, eyes darting in Dean’s direction even as he dances around him with sprays and creams who knows what the fuck else, “decided to be MIA while I was working.  But Gabriel gave me your measurements, and they should suffice.  Assuming you haven’t either embalmed yourself or grown a beer gut over the last few days.  Neither would surprise me.”

Dean clenches his fists, not sure if he means to calm himself down or prepare himself to punch the bastard.  Neither would surprise him.

“Ain’t like it matters.  Not gonna be wearing the monkey suits very long, am I?”

Balthazar ignores him.  If Dean was a little more awake, he’d be pissed at how casually the dude just rips off his clothes and tugs him into new ones like a damn doll.  At least Gabe had the decency to let Dean dress himself.  Usually.

He’ll give him this, though – half-assing it or not, at least he gets done in a hurry.  Five minutes into the dress-up game, Balthazar steps back, eyes Dean from head to toe, then smirks and nods.

“Voila.  My work here is done, boys.”

He spins on his heel – another high, capped thing that Dean wants to take a machete to – and sashays away, not bothering to check that Dean is following.  He should be, and both he and Sam know it – they don’t exactly have time to play Texas Hold ‘Em here – but Dean takes a second to check his look in the mirror anyway.  It’s just a reflex, not real curiosity – he hasn’t given a damn about his looks since after his first Games.  After it stopped mattering.  That doesn’t stop him from cocking an eyebrow when he takes himself in, though.

It’s very… green.  Like, _green_ green.  That’s really all he can think to say about it.  Ain’t hard to figure out what Balthazar’s goal was – the fabric he made this thing out of is some kind of practically-liquid silk that perfectly matches the color of Dean’s eyes – but it’s about as far from subtle as anyone could get.

If it’d been Sam in his place, Dean would’ve been cracking all kinds of jokes.  “Nice look, Jolly Green, I’ll be sure to eat all my veggies.  Think the competition’s gonna worry about you Hulking out on stage?”  It would have been weak, but it’s all Dean knows to do.

Sam isn’t wired that way.  All he does is purse his mouth and look away.  Behind him, Tessa stands up and follows after Balthazar.

Dean waits.  He’s not sure what for – a hug, some tears, a punch to the face, one of those classic “I can’t let you do this” speeches.  It’s anyone’s guess with Sammy.  He’s gotten all of that and then some before.

After three seconds – a new record – Sam finally caves.  With a low sigh, he flips his hair and shuffles forward.

“He’s no Gabe, but it isn’t bad.”  He coughs, hand hovering in midair.  After a second of Dean honestly thinking he’s about to get that punch, Sam leans forward and claps it on Dean’s shoulder instead.  It weighs him down like iron.  “I’ll see you when it’s over.  Okay?”

Not okay.  The exact opposite of okay.  The words reverberate in both their skulls, hollow and unpleasant.  They shake it off and stare in opposite directions before they can see the recognition in each other’s eyes.  Something breaks behind Dean’s ribcage.  He didn’t realize he’d been waiting for Sam to give him hope, or strength, or whatever, until he didn’t.

“Yeah.  I guess.  See ya, Sammy.”

Dean takes another look in the mirror – fucking _green_ – then stomps after Tessa and Balthazar.

The trolley/rickshaw thing is already waiting for them outside, fully automated and self-driving.  Why they can’t just walk to the center of town is fucking whatever, but Dean’s joints are stiff from sleeping in all the wrong places for the past few days, so he takes it without a word.  Tessa climbs in beside him, Balthazar across.  They don’t look at each other or say anything. 

Upstairs, one of the curtains flicks shut. 

 

 

It takes even less time to reach the stage than it did for Balthazar to dress him.  The small but growing crowd surrounding it parts easily to let them all through.  Between the headache and his stomach and the fact that he still can’t get over how green he is (clothes _and_ skin, now that the hangover’s finally kicked in), it all passes in a blur.  One second, he’s stepping into the street.  The next, there are bright drone lights in his face and that sickeningly familiar Capitol music in his ears.

He looks away from the screen set up over his head.  It doesn’t matter, though.  He still sees every second of the clip reel, burned into his brain like a bad tattoo.  Lucifer’s voice creeps down his spine as he talks about the evil rebellion and the good citizens’ noble sacrifice.  At the words “we honor”, he forces himself to keep from flinching, knowing that seventeen-year-old John Winchester has filled the screen, hands bloody and eyes like fire.  He hears “the memory”, and knows that, like every year for the last damn eleven years, his own face has popped up right behind it.  Eighteen, muddy, and exhausted.  He doesn’t look like Dad in that image.  He doesn’t look like much of anything.

The music shuts off, and the whole crowd is silent.  Balthazar stands next to the guards in the front row.  It’s only him on stage. 

A metallic glint makes him blink.  He rubs his eyes, then looks up to see Tessa stepping onto the stage in front of him.  He realizes now that it’s her dress, which he somehow hadn’t noticed earlier.  It’s a slip of fabric that should be see-through, but, instead, it kind of reflects everything around her.  It’s probably supposed to be a metaphor or something.  He’s pretty sure he gets it, but he doesn’t bother wasting his time analyzing.

Tessa taps once on her mic, the noise of five-hundred crinkled potato chip bags in surround sound thanks to the speakers, and Dean thinks, “This is it – guess this is the first year I’ll actually puke at one of these things.”

But he doesn’t.

He never does.

“Happy Hunger Games!  And may the odds be ever in your favor!”

As usual, the crowd is silent.  The only difference this year is that it’s only the women in the crowd who look terrified.  The men just look sad and stony.  A very dark part of him wants to grab the mic and shout, “Taking one for the team this year, boys, death’s on me!”  But he doesn’t do that, either.

“As decreed by our President, the new ruling for this year’s Games state that, should any district have no living victors, the necessary male and/or female Tribute will be Reaped from a pool of all of that District’s citizens.  In order to make the competition more fair, no restrictions shall apply; any citizen above the age of twelve may be Reaped.”

One of the guards rolls two fishbowls onto the stage.  The one on the right is stuffed full, loose slips of paper crammed in and still threatening to fly out in the breeze.  The one on Dean’s side is completely empty.  Almost, anyway. 

Tessa shoots another fake 500 watt smile at the drones and steps up to the table.

“Let’s start with the women.  This year, the female Tribute for District 9 will be…”

She makes a show of threading her fingers into the paper, like a hand model on a niche porn site.  On any other day, that thought might make him laugh, but, right now, it just makes him sick.  After all, what are he and Tessa but porn stars?  Sex isn’t the only thing that sells.  Fifty years of this shit proves it.

Finally, once the suspense has been adequately amped up, she plucks out a card from the center and unfolds it.  The drone camera closest to the stage scans it, broadcasting it to the big screens the moment Tessa speaks.

“Emma Archer.”

The crowd of women shifts.  Near the front, where all the kids are grouped in their Sunday best, a thin blonde stands to her feet.  She isn’t on the lower end of the spectrum, which is a stupid thing to be thankful for but still.  She isn’t an adult, though.  That much is clear from her babyface and gangly limbs.  He’d put her at eighteen. 

Her hands shake when she reaches the middle aisle, but she steels it up and holds her head high as she walks to the stage.  He doubts that even the cameras noticed it, and they’re hovering around her like bees.  He just knows what to look for.  And now, he looks and sees that her eyes are too dry, and the set of her mouth is forced.

When she hits the steps, close enough for him to take her in for himself, something prickles at the back of his head.  He didn’t expect to recognize her.  He never expects to recognize anybody in the District – he purposely avoids them all like the plague.  But this girl is familiar.

It takes him a minute, but he finally figures it out.  Archer.  Like her mom.  Lydia.  She even looks a little like her.  She’d been in Dean’s grade before he quit school.  She gave him one hell of a ride. 

As if they can read his mind – and Dean honestly wouldn’t be surprised at this point if they could – the drones turn from Emma and scan the crowd.  Lydia’s easy to find, tall and stacked with blonde hair that begs to be tugged.  He almost smirks, but then the cameras get a little closer, and he gets a better look.  She doesn’t look like any other mom he’s seen in this District.  And not just because she’s still built like an Amazon.  She doesn’t look sad, or surprised.  It’s like she expected this.  Wanted it.  She doesn’t look happy, but she almost looks proud.

His memory of her thighs turns sour in his stomach.

Emma takes the last few steps, accepting Tessa’s purposely awkward hug, and comes to stand right next to him.  He doesn’t look down, doesn’t so much as flinch in her direction, but the pictures flood his brain anyway.  Hands around her neck.  Arrows in her chest.  Blood everywhere, guts spilling onto the ground.  He wonders which one they’ll actually get to see.

Bile chucks up his throat, but he swallows it down before it can come out.  He takes a step away from the girl, refusing to care if the cameras catch it.

For the first time since Lucifer’s big announcement, he lets the full knowledge of his plan sink in.  Cas is gonna live.  Dean will damn well make sure of that.  But Dean himself? 

Well, will it really hurt anyone when he’s gone?

“And, now, for the men.”

Tessa blinks away from the crowd to look at Dean.  Just for him, just for a second, there are tears in her eyes.  Then, she plasters her smile back on and reaches into the empty fishbowl.  It takes a moment of digging for her to snag the single slip of paper inside.  In the audience, nobody’s breath catches.  Nobody’s eyes go wide.  Nobody starts to cry.

The drone camera zooms in, lingering on her long fingernails.

“The male tribute for the Fiftieth Annual Hunger Games will be Dean Winchester.”

 

 

 

** May 2 – Year of the 38th Games **

Dean hadn’t moved since they escorted him and Bela into the Justice Building.  He didn’t know where they’d put her – there weren’t too many rooms in the concrete condo – but he would’ve been lying if he’d said he’d given it much thought.  He’d be lying if he said he’d given anything at all much thought.

Voices echoed down the hallway outside his door.  No one familiar, just the normal admin hoopla he’d gotten used to overhearing his whole life.  For the first time maybe ever, he didn’t hate it.  Hell, he _welcomed_ it.  He wouldn’t have been able to focus on their words for anything, but at least it was something.  At least it was noise.  He didn’t know if he’d be able to deal with this in silence.

Two pairs of feet puttered around his door.  Dean wiped the sweat off his face and drew himself up in his chair, begging his body to stop shaking for at least one goddamn minute.  If it was the guards, he didn’t want them to see him like this.  If it was Bobby, he didn’t want to be a snot-nosed kid.  He was a man – had been since Mary died, it seemed – but, even if he wasn’t, now would have been the time to become one.  Time to stop crying.  Time to talk to strategy.  Time to figure out –

“Dean!”

The door slammed open, and Sam rushed in, octopus-limbed around Dean before he could so much as stand up.  The guard in the doorway didn’t so much as blink.

“You’ve got ten minutes.  Shipping out in thirty.”

Before either of them could say anything, his white-gloved hand clicked the door back into place.  Dean’s mouth tightened, but so did his arms around his little brother.  He felt his shoulder getting wet.

“Hey, hey, Sammy,” he murmured, stroking back his long hair.  “‘s alright.  Gonna be okay.”

Sam shook his head violently, curling into Dean even tighter.  He closed his eyes and allowed it for another second.  Just one.  If he let himself have more, if he let it sink in what had happened, what was _going_ to happen –

Softly, more than he’d done since both of them were babies, he pushed Sam away.  His legs shuddered when he stood to his feet, but he locked his knees, set his jaw.  It was as automatic as the machines he worked on every day – Sam didn’t need to see past it.

And, lucky or not, it didn’t seem like Sam would be looking for it anyway.  His eyes, wet and glassy, had narrowed down to tiny hazel slivers, all fire and rage. 

“What were you thinking, Dean?” he snarled.  “Why did you do that?”

To his own surprise, Dean actually laughed.  In a way, he was kind of glad – he had no idea how the hell to respond to such a stupid question, so it was a good thing that his body took over for him.

Sam didn’t look as amused.  He was shaking every bit as much as Dean was pretending not to.

“Did you think about yourself for even a second?  Or what about Ellen?  Bobby?  They’re already gonna have to watch Jo, now they’ll have to –”

“Hold up,” Dean squawked.  “How the hell did you know Jo was reaped?”

Sam glared at him like he was a nimrod.  “Did you even see Bobby’s face, Dean?  How could I not know?”

Dean grumbled under his breath.  He hated to admit it, but he was impressed that Sam had caught on so quickly from a single look.  Granted, that’s exactly what Dean had done when he’d first seen Bobby, too, but still.  The kid was fourteen – he shouldn’t know so much.

And he shouldn’t have kept going.

“No, you didn’t think about anything!  You always do this, Dean!  You’re going to get yourself – get –”  He couldn’t even spit it out.  He winced, his glare not dampening at all, and plowed on.  “And we’re all gonna have to watch!  Bobby and Ellen are gonna have to watch!  _I’m_ gonna have to watch!  Did you think about how that would make me feel?  Did you think about me at all?”

The well of tears, the softness in Dean’s gut, popped like a balloon.  His hands clenched against nothing.  His body started vibrating again, but, this time, it had fuck all to do with nerves.  Then red flooded his eyes.

For one absolutely awful, terrible moment, he honestly thought about punching Sam in the face.  He’d never done it before.  Never even thought about it before.  Sure, he’d thought of smacking the kid around a bit when he got too mouthy, but never anything that violent.  Never anything that personal. 

But, then, he blinked.  He blinked, and looked down at his baby brother.  Sam, exactly fourteen-years-old that day, thin and gangly and uncoordinated.  He could hold his own in a fight, John and Dean had both made sure of that, but he wasn’t hard.  He wasn’t a killer.  He didn’t have it in him.  He was just a scared little boy, afraid of losing and angry at all the wrong things.

Dean swallowed, counted down from three, then leveled Sam with every bit of fury he was feeling.

“Believe it or not, Sammy, all I was thinking about _was_ you.  Or did you forget the first half of what happened out there?”

Sam paused.  His shoulders were still heaving, his bitchface was still top-grade, but he wasn’t all righteous fury anymore.  If Dean hadn’t known him, fucking _raised_ him, he might not have seen it, but did, and he understood.  That last shake of his shoulders was nothing but abject terror.  He remembered _exactly_ why Dean had gotten himself into this. 

He sniffed, tears welling up in his eyes.

“You shouldn’t have – ”

Dean smacked him – maybe a little rougher than he should have – across the mouth.  “Don’t even go there.”

Saline dripped from his eyes and nose onto Dean’s palm where it touched his face.  They both shivered, but Dean refused to break.  If he did, he didn’t know that he would be able to put himself back together. 

“I told you last night,” he growled.  “I take care of you.  And that’s what I’m doing.  End of story.”

Sam pulled away, wiping viciously at the tears on his cheeks.  “Please, Dean.  You can’t do this.”

“And you can?”  Before the little smartass could even attempt to answer, Dean forged ahead.  “We both know I’ll be fine, I’ve practically been doing this my whole life.  I’m a hunter, Sam!”

“You’re a _mechanic_ , Dean!” Sam shouted.  “Damnit, you’ve never even shot a gun!”

Dean snorted.  “That’s a lie and you know it.”

“Never at _somebody_.”

For a second, Dean’s mind flashed back to the bodies in the woods, the scent of burning flesh while Dad tended the fire.  He thought about the blood, and the eyes, and everything – thank _God_ – that Sammy would never have to see. 

But those were monsters.  Not people.  Not kids.  Not anymore.

Dean licked his lips.  “Look, Sam, I can do this.  I _can_.”

“Okay.”  He sounded less than convinced. 

With a carelessness he didn’t feel, Dean smirked and patted his brother on the arm.  It felt wrong, between Sam’s barely-dried-up tears and his own thick limbs, but it grounded him all the same. 

“Yeah, ‘okay’.  I’ll be just fine, Sammy.  And I’ll get out and come back and it’ll be like nothing ever changed.”

“Yeah, except that Jo will be dead.” 

His whole body jerked.  He barely refrained from kicking the chair out from behind him.  Instead, he clenched his fist and settled for shoving a single, shaking finger between his brother’s eyes.  “That ain’t gonna happen.”

“Dean,” Sam huffed, and – this time – he wouldn’t meet Dean’s eyes, “you know that’s not how the Games work.  Everybody dies.  Only one person gets out alive.  That’s what I meant earlier, and you… you know, we’re going to watch one of you die.  You or Jo.  Or both.” 

Dean rolled his eyes and turned away.

“I’ll figure it out, alright?” he snapped. 

He was used to using the “big brother” tone, had been since well before Dad died.  He was also used to not feeling an ounce of the confidence that tone mustered up.  He was going to make it through the Games – that wasn’t a question, it was a _guarantee_.  He’d decided as much within the first few minutes of volunteering.  But getting Jo out, too? 

If he didn’t, Bobby and Ellen might never look at him again.  Hell, he wouldn’t be able to look at _himself_ again. 

He closed his eyes and counted to ten. 

Maybe… maybe he could play dead?  Have Jo pretend to kill him, then “miraculously” wake up well after the Games had ended and Jo had won?  Or maybe he could find a way to sneak Jo out past the forcefield? He knew the forcefield existed – he remembered last year’s Games, when some poor bastard launched himself at it and promptly exploded like tomato soup in a balloon – but it had to have a weak spot.  All machines, even virtual ones, had a weak spot. 

Behind him, Sam cleared his throat. 

“Maybe,” he started, small and hoarse, “maybe somebody will stop it?  Before you have to kill anybody?”

“Right,” he snorted, “who the hell can stop this?”

Sam mumbled something under his breath.  Dean didn’t catch a word of it.  All but vibrating, he spun on his heel to face his baby brother, eyebrows knitted together like a damn inchworm. 

“Well?”

“Maybe… maybe District 13 – ”

Dean slammed his hand against the wall so hard that the glass frame rattled to the floor. 

“Damnit, Sam!  Not this again.  You’re almost a goddamn adult.  You’re too old to believe in fairytales.”

“It’s not a fairytale, Dean!” he shouted.  “They exist, they’re out there!”

Dean laughed, the sound choked and obviously forced.  “You really believe that shit?”

Sam nodded just as earnestly as he had every year for ten years when Dean asked if he still believed in the Easter Bunny.  “ _Yes_ , Dean.”

“Alright, then, Einstein.”  Dean crossed his arms tight over his chest.  “If they’re still around, then why haven’t they stopped this?”

“What?”

“You heard me.  They still exist, right?  They’re still more powerful than the rest of this world combined?  Then why haven’t they put an end to it?”

Sam glared at him, his weedy little fists balled up at his sides.

“I don’t know, Dean.  Maybe they’re waiting for the right time.”

“Kids have died, Sam.  They’ve slaughtered each other.  And you were…” 

Outside the door, another guard jangled at the lock.  Dean gritted his teeth and looked away – from Sam, from the door, from all of it.  Their ten minutes were up.

“I think the ‘right time’ was thirty-two damn years ago…”


End file.
